"But suppose I tell you what I firmly believe--that you _have_ seen him; that it was _his_ face which bent over you in your half-sleep the other night, and his voice which you heard?" "I always thought that it was no dream," said Winifred. "It was--not a nice face." "And remember, Winifred," urged Carshaw earnestly, "that to-day and to-morrow are your last chances. You are about to be taken far away--possibly to France or England, as surely as you see those clouds. True, if you go, I shall go after you." "You?" "Yes, I. But, if you go, I cannot be certain how far I may be able to defend and rescue you there, as I can in America. I know nothing of foreign laws, and those who have you in their power do. On that field they may easily beat me. So now is your chance, Winifred." "But what am I to do?" she asked in a scared tone, frightened at last by the sincerity blazing from his eyes. "Necessity has no rules of propriety," he answered. "I have a car here. You should come with me this very night to New York. Once back there, it is only what my interest in you gives me the right to expect that you will consent to use my purse for a short while, till you find suitable employment." Winifred covered her face and began to cry. "Oh, I couldn't!" she sobbed. "Don't cry," said Carshaw tenderly. "You must, you know, since it is the only way. You cry because you do not trust me." "Oh! I do. But what a thing it is that you propose! To break with all my past on a sudden. I hardly even know you; last week I had not seen you--" "There, that is mistrust. I know you as well as if I had always known you. In fact, I always did, in a sense. Please don't cry. Say that you will come with me to-night. It will be the best piece of work that you ever did for yourself, and you will always thank me for having persuaded you." "But not to-night! I must have time to reflect, at least." "Then, when?" "Perhaps to-morrow night. I don't know. I must think it over first in all its bearings. To-morrow morning I will leave a letter in the office, telling you--" "Well, if you insist on the delay. But it is dangerous, Winifred--it is horribly dangerous!" "I can't help that. How could a girl run away in that fashion?" "Well, then, to-morrow night at eleven, precisely. I shall be at the end of this lane in my car, if your letter in the morning says 'Yes.' Is that understood?" "Yes." "Let me warn you against bringing anything with you--any clothes or a grip. Just steal out of the inn as you are. And I shall be just there at the corner--at eleven." "Yes." "I may not have the chance of speaking to you again before--"